The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“To come and see his wife at the hospital, yes. Rolly, we’ve nothing on King, and you know it.”

“Bill,” said Rollison, “these people are killers. I think King’s life is in grave danger because he could tell us —all right, you — what’s been going on. If I were you I wouldn’t simply try to find him to soothe his wife down, I’d try to find him because his life is in acute danger. There’s nothing in the world to stop you from putting out a general call.”

Slowly, Grice, conceded: “He could be in danger, I suppose. I’ll have a general call put out for him.” He lifted one of three receivers on his desk, and gave instructions, put down the telephone and went on to Rollison almost in the same breath. “The description of the motor-cyclist who attacked you and this motor-cyclist is identical. Green helmet, black goggles, on the big side, and splay-footed.”

“Any trace of him?” asked Rollison hopefully.

“I’ll tell you the moment there is,” Grice promised. “Thanks. What more do you want from me now?”

“A statement covering why you went to Rubicon

House and what you did and anything you can say to help us find the motor-cyclist.”

“That will be a pleasure,” Rollison replied with relish.

Half an hour later, he was taken downstairs to the garage beneath the new building, and the first thing he saw in a bay near the ramp was his Bristol. A police mechanic moved over towards him and a sergeant whom Grice had sent down with him.

“Did you get that bomb off?” asked Rollison.

“No, sir, I did not!” the mechanic replied. “We sent for a bomb disposal squad, and they came pronto and prised it off. They said it would have blown up half the car, and you with it. It’s all okay now, though, sir.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks very much.”

All right, he kept repeating to himself. All right. One moment he could have laughed at the ludicrousness of the fact that so much had happened. He must have been recognised by Effie, who had sent for the motor-cyclist: what other explanation could there be. At least, he wasn’t being held. He got into the car and saw that it was a quarter past five.

Pamela Brown was due at half past six, and —Good Lord! He’d forgotten Jack Fisher!

What would he find when he reached his flat?

Outside were policemen and near them roughly-dressed men, Ebbutt’s men, who had come to keep an eye on him at Jolly’s request.

He found Tommy Loman talking earnestly to Jack Fisher, in the big room, glasses in hand, whisky and a syphon of soda on a low table between them. He crept in the side way on recognising Tommy’s voice. He gave a soft whistle at the kitchen door, to alert Jolly, who turned at once.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“The radio mentioned you in connection with a fire in Chelsea, sir.”

“Did they mention Tommy Loman?”

“No, sir — no names were mentioned except that of a Mrs. King —”

“Jolly,” interrupted Rollison, “even our Grice tried to whitemail me about Effie King. In fact I still owe him a comment on what I think of her.” He leaned against the sink. “How long has Fisher been here?”

“About twenty minutes, sir. I thought it best to give them a drink and let them find their own level. It has been rather amusing — they are vying with each other in their knowledge of you!”

“What?” breathed Rollison.

“It is true, sir. Fisher has obviously followed your activities for many years with close interest, and whilst here Mr. Loman has learned a great deal from the press cuttings books and case histories. Will Mr. Fisher stay to dinner?”

“No,” answered Rollison. “I’d like him to go before Miss Brown arrives. Has anyone called?”

“No, sir. Mr. Ebbutt has sent six men who have stationed themselves in the street and at the back of the building. Two policemen are back and front, too. I don’t think there is too much danger,” Jolly added, soothingly.

“I shouldn’t be too sure,” said Rollison.

“Seriously, sir?”

“A man who escaped on a motor-cycle lobbed another bomb, this time a fire-bomb, at the house I was in at Chelsea,” said Rollison. “Then he seems to have escaped through a window and leapt on his motor-cycle as Loman would leap on his trusty steed. I’ll give you all details later. Er — Jolly.”

“Sir?”

“Miss Pamela Brown carries a pistol.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Yes, indeed. If you think there is any need, take the gun out of her bag, take the bullets out, and put the gun back.”

“I will certainly do my best, sir. Have you any reason to believe that Mr. Fisher is armed?”

“I don’t yet know what to make of Mr. Fisher,” Rollison replied thoughtfully. “I shall soon find out.” He went to the study-cum-living room, to hear Fisher say with both heat and emphasis :